She gave him a cynical look. “There always is.”
“I wonder if B-Side knows?”
“They say that the rapper’s always the last to find out.”
“I think that’s the wife…or the husband, more often.”
“Whatever.”
Black returned to his seat to go through the rest of his mail, and froze when he read one from Stan, sent on the way in to work via his iPhone, alerting Black that Sam had been gunned down the prior evening.
“Damn. Roxie, pull up everything you can on Sam, the manager. He was killed last night,” Black called to her.
“Really?” He could hear her fingers flying over the keys. “Here’s an article from this morning’s paper.”
His inbox pinged at him and he read the message and attachment, and then picked up his cell and dialed.
“Colt,” Stan’s voice answered.
“I got your message. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to be on the case starting this morning. The B-Team called in that record guy, Moet, last night to interrogate him, and he showed all lawyered up…and with an alibi. Claimed his car had been stolen earlier, which fits a call from his security people.”
“Why did they drag him in?”
“Because it was his car that was used in the shooting.”
Black’s mouth hung open. “Really?”
“Yup. Pulled right up to the manager’s house and blasted away. Didn’t care who saw it, either. Which was one of the things that was all wrong about pulling Moet in. If he’d put a hit out on Sam, he wouldn’t have used his own car and practically spray painted his phone number on the body. But it was all done before I caught the case. That crap stops now that I’m on it.”
“What do you think happened?”
“A guy got shot. I’m on the way over to the crime scene now, and then his office.”
“Will you let me know if you turn anything up?”
“Sure. There’s nothing I enjoy more than violating department policy and leaking secret information.”
“So that’s a no?”
“Think of it as a definite maybe. Hey, I gotta go. Was that all?”
“Yeah. I just found out about it…”
“I’d put on some Kevlar underwear, if you got any. The drive-by M.O. seems familiar.”
“Oh. Right. That.” Black hesitated. “How about B-Side? You going to drag him in, too?”
“No probable cause as far as I can see. You know something I don’t?” Stan asked, his voice now wary.
“Nope. Just a question. That’s all. Because I was hoping to have a chat with him today…”
“Might want to do it in a public place with plenty of witnesses. Just saying.”
“Thanks for that.”
“My pleasure.”
Stan hung up and Black sat back. The game had just changed from who was trying to kill B-Side to who killed Sam. In a way, that simplified things – but not by very much. They still had no definitive motive, no credible suspect. Other than everyone involved in the case.
One of the things that bothered Black was Moet’s involvement. He wouldn’t put it past the impresario to have arranged for the car theft and alibi specifically because he was involved in Sam’s execution. As it was, it conveniently cleared him of any suspicion, which if he was guilty was the whole point to the exercise.
As he was spinning ever more fanciful scenarios, his cell rang. He studied the caller ID and then lifted it to his ear.
“Black.”
“Yo, Black. It’s Moet. I heard your boy Sam got capped last night.”
“That’s the word.”
“Listen, man, I want you to come over to my place. We need to talk.”
“What about?”
“About B-Side. And Sam.”
“Shouldn’t you save that for the cops?”
“They won’t listen like you will. They just see a dangerous, ganged-up brother they want to put away. I know how the system works.”
“So you want to tell me your side of it?”
“Ain’t no side to it. I’ve got something you need.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Stop being a bitch and come out to my pad. It’s in Calabasas.” Moet gave him the address.
“Are you and Bieber neighbors?”
“Yeah, and Britney comes over to make sure my eggs are over easy every morning. What the hell is this, twenty questions? Just get your skinny white ass out here and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Seeing as you’re asking so nicely, how can I refuse?”
“I’ve got meetings until three. Can you make it at four?”
“Let me check my schedule.” Black paused, staring into space. “Looks doable.”
“Then I’ll see you here, then. I’ll let security know you’re coming up. Don’t want them going all Apocalypse Now on yo ass.”
“Yeah, I hear there’s a lot of that going on in some of the best neighborhoods. Beverly Hills comes to mind.”
“I had nothing to do with Sam. You’re barking up the wrong tree. You and the cops,” Moet insisted.
“Oh. Well, since you say so, I apologize. I must have gotten my wires crossed.”
“Just be here at four. Won’t take long for you to understand what’s going on.”
“Yeah, uh huh.”
Black disconnected, and then went back out to Roxie’s desk. “What would you say if I told you that Moet just about ordered me to come to his house today to talk about Sam’s shooting?”
“Mmm, that you should make sure your life insurance is paid current?”
“Seriously.”
“I’d call Stan and let him know you’re going. And then let Moet know Stan knows,” Roxie said, holding back her trademark smirk.
“That’s a great idea.”
“Duh.”
Chapter 37
Moet’s home wasn’t so much opulent as palatial – a cozy ten thousand square feet of lavish splendor, all marble and granite and cobblestone, with a six-car garage and an entryway you could land a Gulfstream on. Traffic into the San Fernando Valley had sucked, several accidents slowing it to a crawl, and by the time Black made it into the exclusive neighborhood of Calabasas where the record kingpin lived it was closing in on five o’clock. Black had called to let him know, but he hadn’t sounded happy, which for some inexplicable reason pleased Black no end.
When Black parked in the driveway, Moet came out of the garage area wearing white cargo shorts and a black T-shirt that displayed his body-builder upper body, muscles rippling beneath the thin fabric. Black was struck by the momentary thought that Moet could snap his neck like a twig, and then shook it off. Stan knew he was there, and frankly if Moet had wanted to hurt him, he’d have expected something more along the lines of a couple of homeboys shanking him or letting loose a few clips outside his office.
“There you are. Finally,” Moet said, wiping grease from his hands with a red rag. Black noted that he didn’t offer to shake. He wasn’t that kind of guy. “Got me a bunch of old jalopies I’m restoring. Calms my nerves.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind?”
“Check it out,” Moet said, waving him to the open garage door. Black followed him and found himself in an immaculate work area with state-of-the-art tools and equipment, a white chassis a few feet off the floor on a hydraulic lift.
“Wow. That’s beautiful. What is it?”
“1932 Stutz Bearcat.”
“And you refurbish these yourself?”
“Any chump can pay someone to do the work. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. It’s kind of like therapy. Only it increases in value over time.”
Other shapes hulked under car covers in four of the stalls.
“And those?”
“A 1938 Rolls Pillarless Sports Saloon, a 1929 Model A, and a 1959 Jaguar Drophead Coupe. All in progress.”
“What do you do when you’re done with them?”
“Got a warehouse in
Pomona. I’m collecting them.”
“How many do you have?”
“So far, thirty. I’ve sworn I’ll quit when I get to a hundred.”
“That’s impressive.”
Moet threw the greasy rag down on the workbench. “Come on. I got something you need to hear.”
Moet led him to the main house, which was as luxurious on the inside as it promised from the outside. Huge oversized slabs of peach-colored marble gleamed up from the floor, polished to a high gloss. Moet directed Black to a couch worth more than Black earned in a year, and then, without saying anything, pushed play on a portable stereo sitting on the glass coffee table.
The production quality was bad, really just a drum machine and a synthesizer providing bass and a simple melody, but when the vocal kicked in the hair on Black’s neck stood straight up. Even from beyond the grave, Blunt’s unmistakable voice had an intensity that was immediately identifiable. They listened for sixty seconds, and then Moet stopped the CD and punched a button on a remote control by his side. The house system activated, and a heavy bass thump emanated from concealed speakers, followed by B-Side’s swaggering vocals – rapping the same song they’d just listened to with Blunt on the mike.
When Moet shut off the stereo the room seemed to echo with a silence as thick as freshly churned butter. Black finally broke the spell.
“How many more do you have?”
“Three. All of which wound up on the first album.”
“Where did you get them?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Moet. I’ll keep it confidential, but you need to level with me.”
“I got them from Sam’s safe.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“How?”
“I have an associate who had the combo and keys.”
Black digested the information. “Obviously, you think Sam was killed over this,” he said.
“Damn right I do. You know how many millions these songs are worth to B-Side? I’m talking huge money, buy-your-own-island kind of money. Well-worth-killing-over kind of money.”
“And you think B-Side did it?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think, honestly. I mean, no question that the song’s the same. But how it wound up on B-Side’s album isn’t so clear. Maybe Sam had the demos, and that’s why B-Side gave him part of the songwriting cut? Maybe he thought that it was Sam writing the tunes.”
“That’s crap, and you know it.”
“Not necessarily. All I’m saying is that just because B-Side recorded some of Blunt’s tunes doesn’t mean he’s a killer, or even that he knew.”
“Sure. Of course, the more obvious answer is that he did know, and he was getting nervous because Sam was getting ready to crack.”
“What do you mean, crack?”
“Sam called me a couple days ago. Wanted to have a powwow. Alluded to wanting to do some kind of a deal. I told him I’d think about it, set something up. But he wanted it all on the QT. Everything secret. Man sounded scared. And I knew Sam. Nothing scared him.”
“You give any credence to the idea that maybe Blunt wasn’t killed in Jamaica? That it was all some kind of a set-up so he could get out of the life?”
“That’s crazy internet idiocy, Black. The man was blown into a million pieces. Witnesses saw it from the surrounding homes. Blunt’s as dead as Malcolm X. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a moron.”
“It’s come up a few times.”
“There are plenty of fools in the world.”
Black shifted gears. “What’s your relationship with Genesis?”
“Why is that any of your business?”
“I’ve got a photo of you two together at an event. Looking like quite a couple.”
“She’s over eighteen. So am I. That has nothing to do with anything.”
“Is that how you got into Sam’s safe?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“I think you just did.”
They glowered at each other, and then Black stood. “Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do with Blunt’s recordings?”
“I’m thinking about it. Probably a massive lawsuit against his record company for lost revenue, at the very least. Blunt’s estate can take care of his side of it. Poor Miles is so screwed. I’ll probably wind up owning his label.” Moet grinned the feral smile of a predator. “Maybe I’ll let him stay on as the janitor or something.”
“I’m going to have to tell B-Side.”
“I’d be real careful about that. Maybe take a couple of cops with you, you know? Because right now it’s looking like he’s public enemy numero uno, you know?”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Black, he killed his manager. And he probably believes he got away with it.”
“Not once you give the police those recordings.”
“Which I will. After I’ve copied them, obviously. Although that presents a problem for me – how I got them, I mean.”
“If Sam gave them to you as part of the deal you were talking about, that would explain it.”
Moet’s eyes narrowed. “Tell you what, Black. I like you. Consider yourself to be working for me now. What they paying you?”
“Three hundred an hour.”
“Call it twenty-five hundred a day. You want a twenty-five-hundred-dollar-a-day job? Because I’d say your current employer’s on a slab at the morgue, and your client looks like the one that put him there. Let’s just say I wouldn’t be counting on any more big checks, you know?”
“You raise a good point. But I can’t just leave my client hanging.”
“No problem, boss. I’ll put you on the payroll as of today. You go do whatever you have to do. I’ll pay you starting next week, two days a week, just to have my own PI on retainer. Run background checks, investigate my rivals, that kind of thing. My money’s green…”
“Let me think about it.”
Moet laughed, genuinely amused.
“You do that, Black. You do that.”
Chapter 38
The air felt heavy as Black motored from Moet’s house, the Eldo’s top down as the fading arc of the sun warmed him on the way to the community security gate. Black wedged his Bluetooth earpiece in place and punched up B-Side’s phone number, then listened as it rang five times before going to voice mail. The anonymous machine voice requested he leave a message, and he slowed as he spoke.
“B-Side. It’s Black. We need to talk. Now. Call me as soon as you can.”
He tried again, and got the same voice mail. B-Side was no doubt hiding from the world – his phone had probably started blowing up late last night or early this morning, and wouldn’t have let up, given Sam’s high-profile death. He debated calling Stan with the new information he’d gotten from Moet, but then decided not to get in the middle of a homicide investigation. Moet would turn over the songs, of that Black was sure, and knowing about them a few hours earlier wouldn’t do Stan much good. Any disagreement over pilfered tunes was a long way from motive for murder, especially if B-Side had an alibi, and even LAPD would tread lightly if there was nothing else to go on and no way of tying the young rapper to the crime.
Traffic back into L.A. was likely to be horrific, and seized by a sudden impulse, instead of heading east on the freeway Black proceeded under the overpass and took it west. If B-Side wasn’t going to answer his phone, then maybe Black could find him at home – Sam had given Black the address of his leased Corona Del Mar beach house as part of his due diligence materials he’d requested at the beginning of the case, which now felt like a year ago even though it had only been days.
An hour and a half later he got off the freeway and made his way to the beach, where B-Side’s residence relaxed on a bluff in Corona Del Mar, an expensive looking multi-level contemporary beach home that glittered in the fading sunlight, all pale blue glass and gleaming whit
e, like some exotic jewel on the pristine coastline. There were no cars in the driveway, but as Black rounded the bend leading away from the house he recognized the red Porsche Boxter parked by the curb – Genesis’ unforgettable ride, made the more so by a distinctive Hawaiian orchid sticker on the rear bumper.
Black drove to the next cul-de-sac and turned around, and when he arrived at B-Side’s entry, he pulled into the drive and parked. He approached the front door and was about to knock when his attention was drawn to the lever handle. He turned it and the door swung wide, the house silent as death as he stepped softly inside. Down four steps was a palatial living room with floor-to-ceiling glass walls, the center section open to the breeze blowing lightly off the sea. A wind chime tinkled its cheery random music as Black made his cautious way into the home.
A rattle interrupted the tranquility, from what he supposed was the master suite, off to the right and down several more steps. Black felt for his Glock, which was in a belt holster concealed by his jacket, and slowly drew it before chambering a round. The snick of the action sounded like a firecracker detonating to his ear, and he cringed inwardly, his breath frozen in his chest as he descended the steps with the caution of a gymnast on a parallel bar.
Genesis was too busy methodically ransacking the bedroom to notice his stealthy approach, her back to him as she pulled another drawer open in the chest inside the closet.
“Planning a trip, or just tidying up?” Black asked.
Genesis jumped back a full foot with a look of panic on her face, but quickly regained her customary composure when she saw him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice tightly controlled.
“Oh, you know, I was just in the neighborhood…”
“I don’t think you need the gun, Black.”
“Ah. Sorry. Just instinct,” he said, lowering it.
“You mean when you’re breaking into a house?”
“The door was open. B-Side’s my client. And I wasn’t rummaging through his things. That would be, well, you.”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, really.”
That didn’t promote further discussion, and they stood and stared at each other in a Mexican standoff, like two tired fighters at the sound of the eleventh round bell ringing.
BLACK Is Back Page 22